


Perfect Pitch

by SwissMiss



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Pseudo-Science, Soulmates, heartstrings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson thought his heartstring had withered or broken following the horrors he experienced during the war. It wasn't until years later that he understood what had really happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Pitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saki101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/gifts).



> The request was for something with a little bit of music or magic. I hope this fits the bill. Some liberties have been taken with the canon timeline. Spoilers for “A Study in Scarlet”, “The Sign of the Four” and “The Noble Bachelor”. Contains canon character death. Beta read by thesmallhobbit.

Upon the occasion of the recent publication of my tenth contribution to heartstring medicine*, I have had cause to reflect upon the history, both public and personal, which sparked my interest in the field. It is not, after all, a usual subject of study for a serious medical man such as myself. Anatomists having failed to locate a physical structure or feature which can unequivocally be identified as the source or object of heartstring phenomena, such effects were more often than not relegated to the provenance of the poet, the philosopher, the theologian, or in more recent years the alienist. However, recent advances in the study of electromagnetism, especially improvements in detection by the Dutchman Einthoven and the new science of radiography pioneered by the German Röntgen make the sort of rigorous scientific inquiry possible that is working to establish the heartstring as a verifiable quantity particular to the human body. I would like to believe that factual, unromanticized contributions from educated men such as myself will continue to legitimize the field and invite further investigation and cataloguing of data.

 

After taking my degree at the University of London, I believed myself in full possession of the scientific body of knowledge about heartstrings in general, and mine in particular. I had undergone the usual developments as a youth and learned to indulge or ignore the humming, buzzing, and jangling that arose in the presence of my playmates, companions, and, in later years, paramours.

 

I had even been lucky enough to find Resonance with the pretty, apple-cheeked daughter of one of the professors at my college. It was an innocent enough flirtation, but we spent many a happy afternoon promenading through Regent's Park, rowing on the Serpentine, or admiring the curiosities in the British Museum while our heartstrings leapt and sang together. (I beg indulgence in using such common romantic jargon: while inaccurate from both a literal and scientific standpoint, the metaphor is so entrenched in the idiom that it will be simpler to use it than to employ a nomenclature familiar only to the expert, and which is additionally undergoing constant revision as the state of our knowledge expands.)

 

My experiences had thus, not to make too fine a point of it, been entirely pedestrian and unremarkable. There was nothing in my past that might have led me to dedicate more attention to my heartstring than to any other organ.

 

Then came the war. I have detailed my adventures during those months elsewhere and have no desire to repeat them here. Let it suffice to say I returned to England much diminished in mind and body, my health irretrievably ruined. I drifted through my days as in a dream, living in fearful anticipation of the waking terrors I was subjected to each night. My heartstring flickered weakly, little more than a sickly tremor. I believed it to be on the verge of withering or breaking altogether. It would not have been surprising after the horrors of Maiwand.

 

I knew what the literature said about patients whose heartstrings had ceased to function: melancholia, debility, catalepsy, catatonia, and eventually, left to their own devices, death. The words did not go far enough to portray the reality of such pitiable devils as shared the ward with me in the hospital in Candahar. They were as wraiths drifting through what was left of their lives, more dead than alive, their faces pinched and drawn, their eyes empty, their actions apathetic and careless. Without the attention of a responsible relation, there was no recourse for them but the asylum. Even then, most did not last more than a few weeks. Having no living family, my fate would have been clear had I succumbed. It was one I desperately wished to avoid.

 

My first thought upon returning to England was to seek healing in music, as sailors whose heartstrings are strained by months of separation from their sweethearts seek theirs in rollicking shanties, or young babes who do not yet understand the unsteady vibrations in their wee bodies are soothed by their mothers' lullabies. My own affinity was for the sweet strains of the violin. There have been moments when the delicate warbles elicited something akin to Resonance within me, and I was eager to attune my heartstring once more. Yet despite spending far more on a series of concerts at the Royal Albert than I could really afford, I was not stirred. My emotions were blunted and dull, and I felt myself retreating ever more into that still, silent world.

 

After that failure, I sought out any opportunity I could to stimulate the last dregs of vigor that existed within me. I cannot recommend my pastimes to everyone, unvirtuous as they were, but every quiver in my breast at the toss of the dice, every flutter at the wink of an ace in my hand, was worth every shilling, every penny, and every farthing I dropped into the pockets of my fellow players.

 

In other words, when I made acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I was in an unenviable state. I was so far gone and had become so inured to feeling that I did not recognize at first the effect which our meeting had on me. I was aware only of the chase, the tempest of corpses and suspects which populated my days and nights on Holmes' heels as we pursued the case later chronicled in "A Study in Scarlet". I felt more alive than I had in months, perhaps years; perhaps more alive than I had ever been in my life. I spared no thought for the spectres that haunted me. I knew only that the pounding of my heart in those hours and seconds was louder than the lack of report from my heartstring.

 

It was not until Jefferson Hope was in custody that my attention was brought back to that organ in a most startling manner. The unfortunate man announced, to our great astonishment, that he expected to die before he could be put before a magistrate.

 

"You needn't look startled," said he, looking around at us. "It isn't suicide I am thinking of." He smirked and lifted his chin in my direction. "What would you say if I told you my heartstring had suffered the same fate as that of my one true love, Doctor?"

 

Hope had already related the tale of his sweetheart who had been forced to marry another, and died within a month of a broken heartstring. I did not hesitate with my reply.

 

"I'd say you were a liar," I stated baldly. The man showed none of the symptoms I was familiar with. He was quick and alert, and possessed of such physical strength and vitality that it had taken four of us to subdue him. As I looked more closely at him now, however, his body sagged as if under the burden of a great weight, and the fists that had dealt such glancing blows not half an hour earlier hung limp and trembling at his sides. A niggling doubt germinated within me.

 

Hope bared his teeth in an unpleasant grimace. "Yet my chest is as silent and still as that great alkali wasteland where my dearest Lucy took the name of Ferrier. My heartstring snapped like a dry twig the day I heard she'd married that devil Drebber. Since then I have known no joy, nor even sorrow, only revenge."

 

When I saw the fierceness in his dark and brooding glare, my doubts in my own diagnosis grew. I had heard of men rallying to feats of incredible strength despite being on the threshold of death themselves, when called on to protect or aid those they held dear.

 

I was brought to mind of a story related during my childhood of a farmer's family whose wagon overturned in a ditch on their way to church. The husband, who had been driving the cart, was killed promptly when the flailing horse stepped on his head. The wife was thrown free of the wreck, but was gravely injured. She could hear their two young children crying piteously where they were trapped beneath the wagon box. Bleeding copiously and with several broken bones, she dragged herself back to the site of the carnage and somehow lifted the wooden carcass enough that the children were able to scrabble out. She then expired as her babes cradled her body, and they witnessed her angel soul fly directly up to heaven, or so the story ended. I do not know if it is true, but it is a pretty tale for infants and preachers.

 

Was it possible that Hope's quest to acquit the loss and death of his beloved had sustained him these many weeks despite a broken heartstring? This was my first inkling that there might be more truth than either conventional wisdom or textbooks told about the connection between heartstrings and the vital force.

 

In that instant, I was confronted suddenly with my own condition. Was I not in a similar state to Hope, more than halfway to the grave, kept alive solely by stimulation from unhealthy and unnatural vices? But no, my heartstring was not broken, it was merely--

 

I felt the earth sway beneath my feet as I became horribly aware of the stillness in my bosom.

 

For a single, terrible moment I believed my heart had stopped beating as well, but in the next second it gulped and throbbed heavily against my ribs, blindly groping its way back to an unsteady, rapid rhythm.

 

It was not my heart which had fallen silent.

 

It was my heartstring. There was no quiver, no hum, no song. No vibration at all. I held myself perfectly still and closed my eyes, as if by denying one of my senses, the others might be induced to perceive that which no longer existed.

 

I heard nothing. Smelt nothing. Felt nothing. Tasted nothing.

 

I was dead. And yet I was alive. Far from feeling empty and bereft, I had never been more content. It is difficult to describe to someone who has not experienced it. It is perhaps similar, in a very small way, to the relief one might feel when a fly which has been plaguing one for hours finally finds its way out the window. Blessed release. Blissful peace. It is the joy of discovering something one had thought irretrievably lost. It is the pure delight of the first shaft of sunshine breaking through the clouds after weeks - nay, years - of rain. It is Sullivan's Lost Chord.

 

"Watson?" Holmes' voice broke into my reverie.

 

I opened my eyes and looked around. Perhaps I had really died, and my soul was ascending to heaven even now, as in the farmer's parable. Yet I was not met with looks of horror or awe. Instead, all I perceived was Hope's triumph at my acceptance of his diagnosis, and mild query from the two policemen in the booking chamber with us. Holmes alone appeared to have noticed something of my crisis. His keen eyes bored into mine, and I fancied there was an air of excitement or anticipation contained in that steely gaze. I know now that he was, in fact, hopeful that I had not only noticed the change within me but understood what it meant. Of course I did not, presuming only that his interest was piqued by the extraordinary circumstances of my patient.

 

I attempted to steady my breaths. My condition had no bearing on the present situation. My heartstring, I reasoned, must have ceased its work at some point over the past several days, and I had merely been too distracted to notice. Really, it had no effect whatsoever upon my ability to function. If anything, my head was clearer than ever, and I felt fit enough to rip tree trunks out of the very earth bare-handed.

 

I straightened my waist-coat and thrust my shoulders back. "It is nothing," I said, waving off concerns that no-one had expressed.

 

I thought I might have imagined the slight stiffening of Holmes' back and the shuttering of his expectant expression, as if displeased by my dismissal. (I am now certain that I did not, but at the time I had no basis for determining the true meaning of his reaction. I have of course since apologized in as many ways as I know how for putting him through so many years of distress and disappointment; but then, as I have also reminded him in equal measure, the blasted man might have said something. Truly, we are both fools.)

 

Regardless of what was going through Holmes' mind, my crisis had passed unremarked upon by the inspector, for he was interested only in my assessment of our prisoner's condition and whether there were any immediate danger of him fading before he could give his account. I took in the rapidly paling skin, the body which seemed to be virtually shrinking before my very eyes, and the peaceful cast settling over his countenance as if he had relinquished any burdens still binding him to the earth, and found I could do no more than answer positively.

 

The remainder of his story was soon related. Inspector Lestrade made note of every word of the sad tale, and we were dismissed with a warning to keep ourselves ready to appear before the magistrates upon the Thursday.

 

"Are you certain you're quite all right, Watson?" Holmes asked as we climbed up into the cab to take us back to Baker Street.

 

I supposed - correctly - he was recalling my episode back at the station. I was warmed by his concern, but I would as soon discuss my heartstring in casual company as I would my bladder. We were friends, certainly - much closer friends than our brief acquaintance would normally warrant, but nothing more than that nonetheless.

 

"Never better," I assured him, which was nothing but God's honest truth, even if it did come out somewhat short.

 

"Hm," he grumbled and stared out the window with a furrow between his raven brows as the carriage jerked into motion.

 

Something wavered in my chest - not my heartstring, not exactly, not anymore, but something in the same spot. I experienced a quite urgent and disquieting need to soothe him.

 

"Truly, Holmes," I insisted, somewhat more graciously, and was instantly rewarded by a pleasant redoubling of that same sense of peace and contentment I first became aware of following Hope's extraordinary statement. "I was taken by surprise at Hope's contention, that's all. It's the first time I've heard of such an extended period of lucid activity with a broken heartstring." We were back on safe ground now, as I was speaking in my capacity as a physician about a medical condition.

 

"You've made extensive study of the heartstring then?" he inquired. There was almost a sneering edge to his words, but the question was honest enough.

 

"Not at all," I responded gamely. "There isn't much to be said, after all. It's not even an organ, as far as we know. More like a symptom."

 

"Hm," Holmes grunted again, although this time it sounded more conciliatory. "Perhaps you ought to investigate it more thoroughly. It might be instructive. I dare say that if nothing else, this case has taught us there is more to human experience than your philosophy has conceived."

 

I smiled. "Hamlet, if a bit mangled."

 

Holmes returned the smile with a nod and caught my eye, and the stillness within me expanded until I felt as if it filled the entire cab. It was not the stillness of a crypt or desert, but the peace of a crystal-clear tarn of bottomless depth beneath a cloudless sky. I could not help a laugh bubbling out of me at the absurdity. Holmes joined me, for no good reason that I could see. God help me, I was a man without a heartstring and the happiest creature on the face of the Earth.

 

That was, then, my first introduction to the possibility that there might well be more to heartstrings than current science allowed. It was also the initial seeding of the notion that it might be a profitable line of inquiry for me to pursue. I didn't follow up on either in any formal way until many years later. If I had, perhaps events might have taken a different course. Or perhaps not. It will do no good to speculate, and things have turned out better than I ever might have conceived despite my blindness.

 

It should be clear to the reader by now, even if it was not to me at the time, that I was not suffering from a broken heartstring at all. Quite the contrary: it was fully intact and functioning precisely as it was meant to. I had no idea of that, of course, and continued blithely under the impression that I was a medical curiosity, having cheated death by some unknown mechanism. I suspected said mechanism involved my friend Sherlock Holmes, but only to the extent that our association continued to provide me with a neverending stream of excitement, distractions, and startling events that kept my lungs puffing, my legs pistoning, and my mind alert.

 

I suppose I had formed the vague theory that a heartstring was something akin to a watch-spring which, in the normal case, was kept in motion by a mysterious internal pendulum. In my case, my pendulum had come to a stand-still, and Holmes - or his case-work - had taken over the job of winding up my watch-stem.

 

We thus continued in our arrangement quite happily for a time. I recovered much of my physical health, although I continued to rely on a cane to steady my leg. My mental state was restored even more completely. I no longer shied away from noisy scenes, and felt quite at home in the bustle of London's streets. My sleep was placid and refreshing, often assisted by serenades performed by Holmes, who turned out to be quite the amateur virtuoso on the violin.

 

Holmes for his part seemed equally pleased by our partnership, even if he did descend into fits of melancholy from time to time, as he had warned me at the outset. I did not attempt to draw him out, according to his instructions, but found I was unable to abandon him either. On those days, my mind was troubled in the same manner as it had briefly been in the hansom cab on our way back from delivering Hope, only more acutely. I put my reaction down to mere sympathy, as I considered Holmes my closest and dearest friend by then. I disliked seeing him down in the dumps and naturally wished he would find as much pleasure in my company as I did in his.

 

I settled on hanging around the flat rather than going down to my club, reading or quietly working on some small project or other while Holmes smoked up a pea-souper in his armchair, drooped on the settee or languished long hours in his adjacent bedroom. I was uncertain at first if my presence had any effect other than assuaging my own conscience, but remarks made by both our landlady and one or two of the police inspectors Holmes was used to working with, assured me that since we had taken up lodgings together his disposition had improved overall, and that when his bad moods struck, they were diminished in length and frequency.

 

It was into the midst of this domestic bliss that a young and pretty client arrived, bearing a tale of missing persons and mysterious treasure. I speak, of course, of Miss Mary Morstan, who was to become my wife. No sooner had she entered our rooms and turned her sweet, fresh face with its large blue eyes toward me than I felt a faint tingle and fizzing in my chest. I dismissed it in the first instant as an ephemeral flash of appreciation at the young lady's youth and charm, but it soon coalesced into a more sure thrum that spread north and south, awakening every corner of my being in a startling manner. It took me several moments to place the sensation, but when I did I was so stunned I confess I failed to recall even the simplest gestures of politeness, and it was left to Holmes to fetch a chair for our visitor and lead her to it.

 

It was the song of Resonance.

 

But how could that be? My heartstring was broken. It had not stirred in years. Not that I had missed it, or the companionship of the fairer sex, in the least. I had been perfectly content - blissfully so, in fact - with my life with Holmes. And yet here it was, humming merrily like an engine with a full head of steam as if it had never done anything else.

 

I was flabbergasted. I had never heard of a heartstring reviving once sprung, much less after so many years. Could it be that mine had not been severed at all, but merely lain dormant like a desert flower awaiting the next rain decades hence? I had no idea. I did not know what to think.

 

I stood abruptly in my confusion - only to realize Holmes had just requested the details of the case from his new client. I usually served as scribe during these interviews, and Holmes gave me a queer look as I hovered indecisively over my chair. In the end it was Mary who begged me to stay, and I found myself powerless to do anything but her bidding.

 

Nonetheless, I was of little use and Holmes wordlessly opened his own note-book and jotted down such particulars as he found pertinent. I spent the time listening with half an ear to the story whilst the other more attentive half turned inward. It was Resonance, of that I was certain. It had been a long time, to be sure, but the particular thrill of harmony, the almost unbearably sweet crescendo of accord, was unmistakable. The sensation was so intense I was nearly overcome. My wonder and relief were indescribable. Imagine a man who has been blinded, only to suddenly recover his sight, or a cripple regaining the ability to walk.

 

The analogy is doubly apt. I was so overjoyed that I was rendered blind, and I did something which ended up crippling me in quite another manner: before the case had even been concluded, I impetuously declared myself. Before I knew it, Mary and I were engaged. We married as soon as it was feasible for her to leave her position with her employer, Mrs. Forrester, whilst I scrambled to set myself up in civil practice so that I might have the means to support a household.

 

Once all was said and done, we spent two or three giddy days becoming acquainted with each other as newlyweds, but it wasn't long before an uneasiness arose within me. I found my thoughts drifting inexorably back to my former home on Baker Street, and more particularly to the sole occupant remaining within its walls. I reasoned that this was a perfectly natural reaction; after all, I had spent some years in close and intimate quarters with the man. My mind was a slave of habit, and it was perfectly logical for it to anticipate hearing Holmes scratching away at his violin late at night, smelling his pipe smoke when I entered at the door, or seeing his lithe form standing in front of the hearth when I looked up from my writing-desk. The fact that he had virtually sustained my life when my heartstring broke (for so I believed) may also have contributed to a slight apprehension on my part at being separated from him. I need not have worried on that account. The Resonance between Mary and me was vigorous and left me in no doubt that I should enjoy a long and happy life with her.

 

I  should , I say, yet as the days and weeks passed the spectre of Holmes's presence became ever more entrenched in my mind. I thought of him more often than I did my wife during the hours I spent out of the house. In fact, even when I was at home with Mary - even, I confess in shame, when we lay beside each other, spent, our heartstrings trilling in unison - Holmes remained the supreme subject of my preoccupation. It was bothersome; troubling, even. I did my wife a disservice. She bore no blame, being as kind, gentle, and generous as any man should have a right to expect. She was dear to me, and I treasured our new life together. Our couplings were compatible and mutually pleasurable.

 

Yet I was dissatisfied. I could not fathom the reason, but Sherlock Holmes seemed somehow to be at the heart of it. I determined to pay my former flatmate a visit, hoping to put my mind at ease. I had no cause to believe him unwell, nor even an excuse to visit other than my own curiosity, but one night after visiting a patient I contrived to find myself in the neighbourhood of my erstwhile lodgings. The instant the door was opened, I knew I had made the right decision; or else a terribly wrong one, depending upon the perspective.

 

At the sight of Holmes' angular face, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise at my appearance, my distress disappeared utterly and instantaneously. My world was righted. The tension and faint unease that had taken hold of my body and mind dissipated like morning mist in the glow of the sun. My face broke out in a broad smile and I clapped him on the arms in my enthusiasm. My greeting was welcomed warmly, if with rather more reserve. Still, I could tell he was glad for my visit; I had, after all those years together, become somewhat of an adept at discerning his moods.

 

In fact, I would venture to hazard that he was more than glad. Judging by the funk in the air, the deep creases in his dressing-gown, and - I was saddened to note - the several empty vials carelessly littering various surfaces around the room, Holmes was either in the middle of or just emerging from one of his black periods. Yet his countenance now shone and there was a spring to his step that he otherwise only displayed at the climax of a particularly diverting case.

 

Had he been affected by my absence in a similar manner to myself? And had my return blessed him with the same inner beatitude as had once again taken up residence within me?

 

He indicated my old arm-chair, tossed me a case of cigars and said I should feel at liberty to fix myself a drink, if I were so inclined. I was. Once I was settled and he stood in his usual position with his pipe before the fire, he offered some superficial remarks on how well matrimony suited me. I did not know how to respond, for I had been disturbed until the instant I arrived. It was not my marriage that had such a positive effect on me, but this place. Or, more to the point, him. I was beginning to come to a conclusion, but as it was not one that promised to bring myself or anyone else joy, I was loath to arrive at it.

 

Instead, I asked what else he could discern about my current condition, and he proceeded to enumerate various details of my domestic and professional situation based upon my appearance. I had seen and heard him do this trick hundreds of times, yet I was charmed and delighted anew that evening. I laughed with the joy of it, the joy of him, the joy of... I did not know what, simply the joy of being. Of being there, in that moment, with Holmes. Of seeing him in his element, his gestures and voice so perfect in their familiarity that they seemed to me no more nor less than sublime.

 

The unexpected relief and contentment that had come over me at being in Holmes' presence once again, intensified with such poignancy and to such a degree that it verged on a physical ache. It was not the chord of Resonance; it was much more than that. It was a choir. It was an opera. It was a symphony.

 

I still, curse my thickness, did not come to the correct conclusion. But at least I recognized that it was, quite simply, the purest form of love.

 

It is possible to Resonate with someone, yet not love them completely. Resonance is an affinity, I believe; a possibility. I did come to love my wife in time, I should like to think, but when we married I did not know her. I was unfamiliar with her preferences. I could not anticipate what would delight her nor what would disgust her. I was unaware of any interests we held in common. That did not stop us from enjoying each other's company, but I did not know her heart.

 

I knew Holmes's heart. From its darkest depths to its headiest heights, from subterfuge and scandal to trust and tenderness.

 

I am not an invert by nature. I have never looked upon a man to desire him, either bodily or in any other manner. Yet we humans are creatures of the flesh, for all that we may strive to be more. When we are happy, we laugh. When we are sad, we cry. When we are angry, we roar and beat our breast. When we are afraid, we run. And when we love, we touch. An embrace, a caress, a brush of skin against skin, warmth against warmth.

 

The moment hung between us, a pause between movements, metaphorical bows poised to strike the strings at a single flick of the conductor's finger. When our eyes found each other across the room, I could not believe otherwise than that Holmes was undergoing the same extraordinary experience as I.

 

I do not know what might have occurred that evening behind the door at 221B, Baker Street, had a client not turned up just then. But one did, and we received him, and the moment was gone.

 

Decorum prevented me from saying anything further, either then or on subsequent occasions; and yet what would I have said? I was in love with Holmes, and I strongly suspected he felt similarly. But what was there to do? Quite simply, nothing. If I had not been married, we might have continued sharing rooms and a life, but even if we were never inclined to engage in the sort of behavior that would run us afoul of the law, we could never acknowledge what was between us. The danger was too great and the English courts too ready to judge.

 

It was moot anyway, as I did have a wife and familial duties. I would return to her, and Holmes to his dabblings. We would make do with our lots, and simply enjoy whatever moments we might chance to spend in each other's company.

 

Or so I surmised. There was no use in presuming otherwise.

 

I continued to accompany Holmes on the occasional investigation, although I endeavored not to make too frequent a habit of it. I was wracked by guilt as I was brutally reminded each time how vastly I preferred Holmes' company to that of my innocent wife. I hoped that, with time, the insistent yearning would fade, as it was my experience that such things do. All I needed do was wait it out.

 

As it happened, nothing could have been further from the truth. The disconsolation, the uneasiness, the preoccupation with Holmes all remained a steady distraction during those periods of forced abstinence. And always, just when I thought I could bear it no longer and was already wracking my brain for some excuse to see him, a summons would arrive in the form of a telegram or note requesting my presence or assistance on some case or other.

 

The final piece of the picture finally dropped into place for me in the course of just such a case involving the ill-fated nuptials of Lord St. Simon. It was a rather straightforward matter for Holmes to uncover the whereabouts of the missing bride. Rather less straightforward was the fact that Harriet Doran had been married once before; or, shall I say, Mrs. Francis Moulton, for her original marriage was still quite intact.

 

Once Holmes had assembled the three involved parties in his quarters for a tête-à-tête, with me as a witness, Mrs. Moulton began to relate the circumstances which had led to her unintended bigamy. The longer she spoke, the more excited I became. In recounting her initial impressions of her husband, she mentioned a calming influence in her bosom, a stillness that was at first startling but soon became comforting and natural. She made reference to such things as "a rightness in the world" and "inexplicable joy". Her experiences mirrored mine so perfectly, it was as if she were reciting from my diary. When she finally let drop the words Perfect Pitch, it was as if the scales fell from my eyes.

 

Holmes and I were in Perfect Pitch with one another.

 

It had not occurred to me, not even for an instant, although it was perfectly obvious in hindsight. My ignorance was not entirely without excuse. Perfect Pitch is not only rare,** it has always been held to exist exclusively between lovers of opposing gender. Additionally, there is almost no serious literature on the subject, it having attained a notoriety of mythological proportions. All of the best-known couples are said to have had it: Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Dante and Beatrice, Héloïse and Abélard, and more familiarly the Shelleys, the Brownings, and our beloved late Queen and her Consort. Perhaps it is true, and yet it has been my experience that Perfect Pitch has less to do with romance than with pure, simple happiness.

 

Those who have not experienced Perfect Pitch may imagine it to be merely a more intense form of Resonance. I cannot confirm the theory. I have tried to illustrate above, in a small and inadequate way, the state of mind which Perfect Pitch can bring about. It has little to do with venal pleasure. It is more akin to the confluence of two souls in perfect harmony not only with each other, but with the universe at large. I see no reason why two fellow men-in-arms, two musicians, two scholars, or two brothers could not find Perfect Pitch with each other. Perhaps they have, but do not realize it, as I did not. For despite its popularity as a romantic vehicle it has been - and remains - unverifiable by scientific means.

 

There are theories, of course. According to the wave theory of heartstring behavior, Resonance represents two heartstrings whose frequency is perfectly aligned. The result is an addition or amplification of their function, which is perceived as physically pleasurable by both subjects. Perfect Pitch, then, is a special case of Resonance, occurring when two heartstrings have both the same frequency and equal amplitudes of opposing pitch. They thus have a mutually calming effect and are perceived as stillness in their subjects. The pleasurable effect of Perfect Pitch is analogous to Resonance, albeit in the mental or emotional sphere as opposed to the corporeal.

 

Another more fanciful theory proposes that the heartstring is the instrument of the soul. According to its proponents, Resonance occurs when two heartstrings harmonize at an interval of a perfect fifth or any of its multiples, while Perfect Pitch is the result of two heartstrings sounding precisely the same note.

 

I can neither vouch for nor discount either proposal. 'It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data,' as Holmes has said. The state of the scientific community's knowledge on heartstrings is a good sight more complete than it was even five years ago, but it is still fraught with potholes and wrong turns.

 

This was the crux of Mrs. Moulton's story as well, which she picked up at the point when her husband went off in search of his fortune, leaving her in the care of her father: "After that came a newspaper story about how a miners' camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank's name among the killed," she said, her fair skin paling even further at the memory. "I fainted dead away. I was very sick for months after. Pa thought my heartstring had broken, and took me to half the doctors in 'Frisco. If there'd been even one of the lot who knew anything about heartstrings, he could have spared us all this trouble. It's down to my foolishness too, I warrant. I can't help thinking I should have known," she fretted. She raised her large dark eyes to us imploringly. "My heartstring was still stuck on its Perfect Pitch, you see, and the sickness was because Frank was missing me just as desperately as I was missing him. I didn't know, though, I swear." She turned to her jilted groom. "You must believe me, Robert."

 

My gaze darted toward Holmes, but he steadfastly avoided my eye. If he suspected the impact Mrs. Moulton's revelation had on me, he gave no sign. I briefly entertained the notion that I had misread his condition, but immediately dismissed it. Even if he were to deny it to himself, the world, and God Almighty, I knew the truth: he had been aware of our heartstrings' alignment from the start. His suggestion that I seek further knowledge on the subject, his lackadaisical reaction to my marriage, his delight and excitement whenever I deigned to join him on a case, that moment of epiphany right here in this room: it was all incontrovertible proof.

 

Why then had he never said anything? I knew the reason. If I had been in his position, I would have done the same. Even if I had not recognized the synchrony of our heartstrings for what it was, I had certainly been aware of the effects. I had acknowledged the joy, the mutual understanding, the lightness of being, and the supernal peace that I enjoyed in our dual life. And I had thrown that over for a moment of Resonance. I had grasped for the brass ring, when I already held a golden one in my hand. Regardless of what label I had placed on our relationship, I had decided it was worth less than an attachment to another.

 

It only stood to reason that he had not addressed the issue.

 

It was too late now to go back and change what had been wrought. Still, I wanted him to know how deeply I regretted my error of judgment, and how highly I treasured and respected him. I only hoped our friendship was not irredeemably ruined.

 

"A rather extraordinary case," I ventured once the visitors had departed. I did not know quite how to introduce the topic.

 

"I suppose you mean the so-called Perfect Pitch which the lady proposed." In addition to the scepticism expressed by his words, there was a coolness to his tone which put me on my guard.

 

"Do you not believe such a thing exists?" I asked, quite taken aback.

 

"I have no doubt it does," he said in a dismissive way, "but the heartstring belongs to the realm of emotion, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true, cold reason which I place above all else. I should never tune my life by my heartstring, lest I bias my judgment." He gave me a quick, superficial smile, little more than a quirk of his lips.

 

My spirit plummeted. It was, then, as I had feared. He chose to retreat and buttress up his defenses with walls of denial. I would not beat them down. I had done too much damage already. Perhaps, in time, he would open them to me again. The best I could do was show him the respect I professed and be as true a friend as I could be.

 

As it came to pass, time was not a resource we had in great measure. It was not too long after that Professor Moriarty caught Holmes up in his nefarious scheme. I cannot help but think that if Holmes and I had stood united, our heartstrings aligned in Perfect Pitch, we might have emerged from the fray victorious together. But Holmes chose a course of solitude that led him away from England, and from me.

 

I do not know if he truly intended me to believe he had died at the Falls above the town of Meiringen; I can only presume not, as he must have suspected, at least, that II would recall Mrs. Moulton and her predicament. And so it was with me: I suffered every year, every month, every day, and every hour he was gone. It was as well that he was generally thought dead, as my distress was easily taken for grief at the loss of my dearest friend. Grief it was, truly, yet anger did not miss its chance to exact its due. I railed against him silently and to the heavens for having done this to us; for was this not a thousand times worse than our previous existence, impoverished and fettered though it had been? I cursed him with one breath for punishing me in this manner for all the ill I had wrought. Yet with the next I lamented his own circumstances, for surely he was wracked by equal pangs.

 

This I knew, for throughout the ordeal, our heartstrings remained in Perfect Pitch, via some mysterious means of communication through the ether. I do not believe that distance poses any hindrance to the reverberations of two heartstrings once attuned, nor that the degree of separation has any negative effect upon their hosts. If it were so, I would have been affected whenever Holmes and I were apart during that 'golden age' between our meeting and my marriage. Yet he was frequently absent for up to several days at a stretch when deep undercover, and I once undertook to journey up to my ancestral home for a fortnight to attend to some business connected to a distant relation, all without a hint of discomfort.

 

I have theorized that our mutual certainty at being reunited following those brief jaunts along with the sure, firm foundation of our common household kept our heartstrings steady during those times. If so, then it is not that one's mood is ruled by one’s heartstring; rather, one's heartstring is as sensitive to one’s mood as the eardrum is to the whisper of one's name spoken by one dear to his heart. By the same token, the unhappiness which plagued us both in the wake of Holmes' departure was like a hot potato tossed back and forth between us, which never cooled but only burnt more keenly with every subsequent pass.

 

Mary, to her eternal credit, was a true source of comfort throughout this period. I shudder to think what might have happened to me had she not been so steadfastly loyal, patient, and supportive. She was a blessing in a time of great trial. I showered her with all the little attentions I could manage, and I should like to hope that, perhaps, I made her happy in some small way. It was a double blow to me when she was taken with a wasting disease two years after Holmes and Moriarty's mortal duel.

 

She suffered her illness bravely, even when there was no more that could be done. My study on the main floor of our house had been chosen for its purpose due to the good light it enjoyed for the better part of the day from the double window that opened onto the garden. As it faced away from the street, it additionally afforded a measure of privacy without the need to draw the curtains. Both features recommended it for temporary use as a private ward during Mary's final weeks. I sat with her daily, helping her complete her correspondence, reading to her when she became too fatigued to sit in her chair, or simply holding her hand when she slipped into a restless, morphine-clouded doze. We reminisced fondly, sometimes, about old friends and acquaintances, although we had long since agreed that Sherlock Holmes was too tender a topic to be broached.

 

But one day, quite near the end, as we sat by the window, watching Mary's beloved garden fading into the first frost, she turned to me and said, in her gentle way: "Don't give up hope, John. He would not want you to be sad." She smiled and squeezed my rough hand with her small one. No more was said, but I knew to whom she was referring.

 

I wondered, later, if she had perhaps known what existed between Holmes and me, and further, if she suspected that our bond had not yet been broken; if I had perhaps let something slip, muttered something in my sleep, or even if there were outward signs I had no awareness of. If so, she was that much better a person for it, and I regret the more deeply that I wasn't a better husband to her.

 

When she passed, the last strains of the Resonance between us faded and fell still, leaving me with an aching silence in my breast once more. This time I knew it for what it was: a testament to my dearest companion, the counterpart of my soul, nor time nor distance should ever break our bond, save death only should part us.

 

I grieved alone this time.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

The particulars of Holmes' return are now widely known, so I shall not dwell on them: the disguise, the visit, the astonishing revelation. I was truly taken by surprise, although I would be lying if I did not admit I had sensed a change in the wind from the moment the ancient book-seller crossed my path. However, it was not until the moment when our eyes met across my desk that true recognition dawned and a lightness rose in my chest like dandelion seeds wafting on a breeze. It rose further still, and for several moments I was dizzy, transported, insensate.

 

When I opened my eyes again, it was to see Holmes leaning over my chair with an expression of anxious concern, a heartfelt apology on his lips. I was filled with such a jumble of emotions and sensations that I could not separate one from another. Excitement, relief, astonishment, joy, and gratitude jostled for recognition within my rapidly beating heart, fluttering stomach, prickling nape, and tear-filled eyes.

 

I reached out to grip his arm. It was thin and sinewy, but solid and warm under his sleeve. "Holmes," I gasped. "Is it really you?"

 

He smiled gently, revealing new wrinkles beside his eyes and mouth. The sight of them filled me with sorrow at having been absent for their creation, and a determination not to miss a single one more. Yet he looked magnificent, and I would not have changed a single line on his face nor hair on his head, so utterly was I enraptured by the sight of him, my dear one.

 

"I have given you a shock," he said with warm amusement. "Do you not observe the evidence before your eyes?"

 

"I am all right; but indeed, I can hardly believe my eyes. It is good I have a more sure witness." I led his hand to the center of my chest and pressed it there.

 

His countenance faltered, and I detected the slightest tremble around his mouth. "Watson." His voice was gruff, no longer steady and sure, and I knew that from that moment forward I would do everything in my power to make clear to him how very dear and precious he was to me.

 

There was no longer any reason for delay. I lurched to my feet and pulled him against me. My arms encircled his slender frame and, following a quick intake of breath, he completed the circle. Our faces pressed into each other's necks, our bodies aligned as intimately as two lovers. For beloved we were to each other, in spirit if not in body. Breath for breath, pulse for pulse, our heartstrings reverberated in perfect unison, an echo of angel wings and eternal light in their wake.

 

After a time, when our racing hearts had calmed and the dampness on my cheeks had dried, Holmes lifted his head to peer into my eyes. I do not know what he saw there, but I dearly hope it was half the affection and devotion I saw in his. He was the first to speak.

 

"I know we do not speak of these things," he began stalwartly, "but if this is not the time, I do not know when it should be. I once denounced the heartstring as a worthless thing. I was a liar, but more than that a coward. Before I knew you, my heartstring was unsettled, a constant distraction I found no respite from. The violin was my first attempt to tame it, and it worked for a time, to a small degree at least. Then I found the cocaine, and that worked better. But you, Watson..."

 

I tightened my embrace, as if to reassure him. "Holmes, you needn't--"

 

"No, it must be said, after all this. Before you, the world was a jangle and a buzz, a dissonant cacophony. With you, I have found peace. You are my conductor. I dance only to your tune."

 

My world tilted momentarily on its axis. Throughout our acquaintance, I had always believed myself the follower. Yet I soon realized what the truth of the matter was:

 

"And you are mine," I rejoined. "We dance together, Holmes."

 

What followed was a private matter, more properly heart than heartstring and thus not relevant for the present discourse. Still, it is incontrovertible that in the course of my research over the past several years, all of the couples I have met who admit to being perfectly attuned to each other's heartstrings have been lovers. Even if it took them many years to arrive at that point.

 

* * *

 

Footnotes:

 

* The Lancet , June 3, 1899. Issue 3953, p. 1244. "Considerations as to the Etiology and Significance of Heartstring Fluctuation." J. Watson, M.D., M.R.C.P. Lond.

  
** A recently published study estimates the rate of occurrence at 1 in 20,000 or approximately 1,000 couples in the United Kingdom currently.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The actual article published in The Lancet under the citation I gave for Watson's article was "Considerations as to the Etiology and Significance of Dilated Heart" by H. A. Caley, M.D., M.R.C.P. Lond. (Member of the Royal College of Physicians, London).  
> 2\. "The Lost Chord" is a song composed by Arthur Sullivan (of Gilbert and Sullivan fame) based on a poem by Adelaide Anne Procter. It was the biggest commercial success of any British or American song of the 1870s and 1880s and was sung by many famous singers of the era, including Enrico Caruso, who recorded it in 1912. Sullivan actually wrote it at the bedside of his dying brother, whom he was very close to. I like to imagine that, within this AU, Sullivan and his brother were in Perfect Pitch with each other, and that the song expresses and mourns the loss of such a connection.  
> 3\. I based the calculation of the occurrence of Perfect Pitch on the population of the United Kingdom in 1900, which Wikipedia gives as 38 million.


End file.
